


The Devil's Mark

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Profane Hymns [1]
Category: Lucifer (Comic), Lucifer (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: Angel Wings, Begging, Biting, Bottom Michael, Boys Kissing, Dirty Talk, Dom Lucifer, Fallen Angels, Hand Jobs, Incest, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Lucifer has issues, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Seduction, Sibling Incest, Sub Michael, The Devil is a Sneaky Bastard, Top Lucifer, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 08:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14445297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Lucifer Morningstar raises those indigo eyes, contemplative even in this, and pulls back Michael's lower lip with a pass of his thumb. "How do you want to be touched?"He cants his head, kisses that thumb and suckles it, affectionately. "However you want. But...”“Yes?”“I just want you to touch me. To be pleased. I miss it so much." Michael sighs.





	The Devil's Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer really hates Easter. Michael sees fit to address the matter of an age-old hurt. Just don't tell Mazikeen...

Easter: the highest holy day of the Catholic liturgical calendar, celebrated not only on a forgettable terrestrial rock around a forgettable yellow sun in a forgettably distant arm of the galaxy, but repeated over and again throughout countless planets great and small, celebrated in vast empires and humble villages.

More than any other celebration undertaken by humanity, Lucifer takes to Easter with certain distaste. Not to the eggs painted and the candy distributed, for those hearken to a pagan revel under Ostara’s tender cares. Nor does he care about the baked bread, the crosses, the abundance spilled out on tables. Hams hardly irritate him.

The very essence of the celebration irritates the Morningstar more than anything.

He drinks two fingers of storm-dark rum that do absolutely nothing for him, and shimmers with a dark, roiling energy. Restless synergy blends that while he coaxes complicated melodies with both hands on the piano deep in Lux. Not a Steinway -- that grand piano situated front and center of the club downstairs is rather one to impress the locals -- but something more individual, made personally by him, bearing the stamp of a factory that doesn't exist in a town that never was for a country vanished into the ether at the turn of the century when all Europe ended up redrawn. By glaciers. Or plate tectonics.

Clamour fills the air as he hums his own melodic chorus and counterpoint harmony, vibrating. How many of the prayers to the Father and the maker he hears, doubtful. That was always Michael's role in purity and now? Who sits by the chamber of the Presence, listening to the deafening silence, while the trueborn seraphim sacrifice their burning mantles?

Gadreel, uneasy with the weight of the sword and the shield, sits outside the chamber, restless and cursing Michael's impulses. How dare the General dally on Earth with the Lightbringer?

For Michael himself shows no guilt at all, but perhaps that rarest thing of all, tact. No mention of the holiday or their Father. Booted feet thump on the balcony outside, the seraph coming in for one of those albatross landings, nearly toppling over in a glory of wings. Then a discreet tapping at the glass door seeks permission to come in?

What else can one do to avoid a celebration they loathe? Easter fanfare decorates a few of the buildings outside. Children already sought their chocolate eggs, and half the city lies in a gluttonous state from large ham dinners. So he drinks. He plays music. All he needs is a woman to balance out the old triple threat.

Lucifer glances up at the tapping, but his agile fingers make Rachmaninoff look like a piddling toddler hammering on a toy dulcimer as he forces the piano to perform in ways almost at the limits of its creation. Taut strings hum, hammers striking, his feet working the pedals to produce melancholic notes that radiate off the open terrace. They pass through the glass walls to surround Michael, as much a greeting as anything. Nodding, he hums in a multiharmonic cadence his agreement.

Without denial, he lets himself in and comes to stand, listening, watching. Where a human might avert their eyes or fall dumbfounded to their knees at such a performance, Michael is invariably simpler about it. He makes no attempt not to stare. Why not, when he so cherishes looking at Lucifer, listening to him?

Mercy and kindness are two very different things. The Devil can achieve one and not the other, though one might be hard-pressed to distinguish between the two. His fingers strike down on the keys to create the arpeggios staged on a score purely in his own mind. How much does he mean or want to summon passion through the music he spins? Lucifer breaks his playing only to reach for the drink, knocking back a mouthful of rum, and setting it right back on the coaster for Lux. Taking up where he ended is a quick matter, something Michael doesn't really interrupt either.

And so he is silent, gazing at the Lightbringer. Wings faintly spread, as if to gather in the notes and to feel the sound in pinions as well as eardrums. In his usual plain clothes, the angel's clean, unrumpled attire is simple -- but jeans and a long-sleeved Henley, accommodating the wings in the back. Perhaps he did laundry, in honor of the holiday.

"Where have you been?" Not so much what are you up to from the Morningstar. Some Aboriginal languages are like that. You ask which direction a person travels because there's no way to ask 'how are you' or 'hello.'

"Rolling in moon dust," Michael says, easily. "I was feeling sort of off and overheated, feathers heavy. But now I'm better, and I got it all off, so I wouldn't track it in," Proving his point, the seraph displays both primaries and boots - no silvery, powdery dust to get ground into the carpeting. He settles on a lounge, still looking at Lucifer and the glistening piano.

"Overheated? Only if you stayed on the bright side. The dark tends to be cooler." Lucifer depresses another of the keys and then the song ceases, severed, maintained in a steady clamour right up to the bitter edge as silence rushes into the void. His own wings are absent; why reveal them, when the exposé from Michael is sufficient? "I thought about wandering into a church service. Tell them the truth. See what light rises in their eyes when they learn there's nothing there in the great beyond, and it might well be their own fault for that emptiness. Seems appropriate for the holiday, doesn't it?"

Michaele shrugs, the pinions rippling with dawn-glow. "The dark is much cooler," he agrees with a sigh. "And perhaps. Mortals are what they are, they can't hold what truth they're given." He rises, comes over to lay a hand on Lucifer's shoulder, as the Morningstar will bear it. The prospect of dread angelic revelations upon God's favoured creatures doesn't seem to bother him.

"Yes, but naturally darker. Surprisingly poorly explored, but the front face -- the bright one -- is invariably more interesting. Better  _ mares _ ." Lucifer clasps the glass and peers down at its remaining liquid. Not nearly enough of that stormcloud rum in a bottle to satisfy his palate, but then one cannot drink down the dark sugar and deep fruits of a tropical island incessantly without consequences, like running out and then being forced to trade for an island so he has a personal distillery there. The hand landing upon his shoulder finds him unusually warm, a result of the energy he absorbed.

Not difficult for the younger seraphic brother to appreciate the tension drawn in every line, every muscle quivering under each finger.

Lucifer holds fast, far from melting away at a touch. "Perhaps mortals aren't made for it.” Admitting Michael may be right? The shock. His voice follows musing contours. “Always worth reminding them their faith is built on a story. A bad one at that."

"So true," Michael says, in a sort of 'all of the above' way. Ducking his head to rest on that broad shoulder, for a moment, he tries to soothe that tension out of the blond angel. The piniosn draw around them loosely, as if to shield them from sight. Let their Father look away awhile.

“I despise this day when death and resurrection feature heavily in the calendar. No escaping all the signs of Father lying here, there, everywhere, lies celebrated by the ignorant masses.” Lucifer does better than break the glass -- he'd have to buy another, and to Hell with that. Comfort is something he wears terribly. What comfort are there in the underworld, ones not forged by himself? He grits his teeth, tipping his head slightly. Not enough to really see Michael but those ruddy-gold curls need to be combed through anything. "What do you seek, anyways? You seem unbothered."

"Your comfort, love," the dark-haired angel says gravely. "Let me distract you. Take it out on me, if it pleases you. Do what you would." Long fingers in those sunbright curls impart a gentle caress, as if Lucifer were in pain. Poised and easy, his other wing droops by a few ticks.

"Comfort." Michael's tone earns that sharp-eyed look from the summer-sky eyes burning hot as twin flames. The Morningstar snarls. His mouth films a smirk, not even fully realized. How many people pray tonight, absolutely bombarding him with their disdain, their pain, and their rage. "Taking it out on you wouldn't serve any purpose. Why would I punish you for what  _ He _ did? For how ignorant, foolish, and self-absorbed  _ they _ have become, dripping with their own failings?"

Words rendered in diamond sharpness upon his brother, how is that fair?

"It might," Michael says, a little drily, "make you feel better. You're far more reasonable than most. And I'm here and a convenient target." 

Let there be no doubt in the endless, unbearable compassion in the offer.

Lucifer tips his head back and scrapes his fingers through the gilded curls again, as though their displacement is a matter of state secrecy and international importance, the way he approaches it. "Splitting open your skin? Lashing that faulted tongue until it bleeds? I've done all that. Punishment  _ earned _ by those deserving of it, brother." Name not the things he has performed as Hell's minister. "You are not a target worthy of that. If I wanted to creatively undo a few of them, I would walk through the Vatican or find the men in cassocks trying to gape ten-year-old arses and teach them what future really awaits them on the path of their vile hubris. Such things were never meant to instill correction."

He could bite Michael's fingers as much as shrug him off, but does not, moodily tilting his gaze skyward to find the offending deity in the sky among the stars or possibly because the stardust on the feathers are prone to making him sneeze. If he had to sneeze. That nose wrinkle is priceless

Michael cups that long jaw in strong fingers, tips it up, the better to meet those deep blue eyes with his own pale gaze. The smooth curve of his mouth holds the faintest trace of a smile.

Who has met his gaze in ten billion bloody years? Mazikeen, certainly. Amenadiel. Not so many others. Not one of his ilk, at any rate, still endowed and invested with a purpose even if it shattered. His gaze slowly trails back, meaningfully down. Then what? Arrested, held, and those profound sins and truths laid bare?

Just looked at with that patient tenderness. Still held, so lightly. The pressure of Michael's touch would not dent a fragile jellyfish or bruise a rose petal. "Very well," he agrees before stooping to kiss Lucifer. An act of benediction, solemn, mingles the heat of his mouth to that raging fire ablaze under the surface. Such is a thing forbidden and utterly sacred, a moment without demand. He gives of himself, uninhibited by the possible response to a transgression against personal space. Wings arch and, spread, as if he'd take flight from there, the Morningstar accompanying him or not. Nevermind that his ascent would be invariably forestalled by the  enclosed terrace as he bashed into the glass ceiling.

That opening of wings is something of a dominance or courtship display, given the species modeled after seraphim. Or possibly Michael's gestures should be read as a getaway. Would he flee post-kiss, like a blushing schoolboy caught out by the crowd?

Lucifer tastes of the rum in its dark notes, currants and brown sugar mingled with dark berries, smoky vibrancy of a hurricane-laced sky, and the kiss of peace bestowed on him is returned as one of its dark reflection. Bliss, the insensate stammer of the senses, full with tongue.

The kiss deepens from that ritual solemnity into something far more dynamic, seeking.  _ Can he rouse or distract Lucifer to a pinnacle of longing to match his own? _ Both hands cup the Morningstar’s face now, lips parted, sharing more for himself and all too eager to feel how their mouths settle together. In all their timeless aeons together, he never dared to aspire so high. Michael melts bit by bit into the terminal void. One hand brushes through those silken curls. He hasn't settled himself into his elder's lap, seated upon the piano bench with Lucifer. Not yet.

Imagine that, the great general of Heaven's forces marshalling himself to perch in Satan's lap and ask what he wants for Christmas. Angels weep. He gives no quarter, the Devil's eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth hot as the starlight he drank in. His tongue marks precise advances, flicking against the back curve of Michael's teeth and sweeping over his palate, an assault of slow, liquid proportions. While he could pull Michael down, Lucifer doesn't, rather striking a fingertip on the piano to produce a high, clear clarion tone in the upper register. Why not? It seems appropriate, even as his hand waits for the moment to steal past -- right between the seraph's shoulder blades, nails scraping up.

Touch -- reciprocation, no less -- brings Michael to a shuddering halt, fingernails over that exquisitely receptive spot. The whole world comes alive in white electricity to him, a shuddering tremor erupting outwards from the impact. Sensation all but spills him forward into Lucifer's lap, crooning his pleasure into the kiss. He does not riposte in turn, though, only slipping his arms around the elder seraph's waist as he comes down in a straddle. Wings angle back, down, trailing opalescent feathers on the floor, all the better to give Lucifer access. “There. Like that.” Has anyone ever experienced such shocking tenderness at the perfect hands of the Lightbringer? No gasping, for he never needed breath, but Michael performs the same in the the softening of lips and tongue, yielding.

Neither of them have to breathe. They can watch whole star systems form without ever tasting oxygen or the dust accretion disk, drinking nothing more than light and forsaking hydrogen and methane and ice particles suspended in their hallowed dance.

Lucifer has been a long time way from that role, but he knows  _ this _ , the carnality and the flesh, the physical and the sublime, in ways that their angelic kind simply cannot. When a kiss is not just a kiss, he slides his tongue along Michael's to will response, his mouth warm and somewhat firm, rather like a good mattress in a luxury hotel. Nails glide up and down across the narrow space between drawn shoulder blades where Michael's roseate wings anchor to his body. So the angel delivers the sharp with the sweet, a succoring of intentions. Those teeth fully capable of stirring passions of a man to doom -- or woman, for that matter -- impressing a bite hard enough to sting, if not hurt.

Breathe, no. But soft noises startle out of the younger seraph. Nerves have their own opinion of all of this, firing before conscious thought brings its weight to bear. Impatient hands tug up Lucifer's shirt, fingertips playing into the firm muscles along the spine. A flicker of his tongue tests seeing if there's any yielding in his elder. The bite makes him jump, but more in surprise than pain. The deeper his tongue slips into Lucifer's mouth, and Michael bends to kiss him harder.

A change in approach calls the Prince of the East. He launches a full attack upon those thoughts -- by restraining himself. Failing to raise a finger at first gives so much opportunity to lead Michael into temptation. Gold is bleeding through the fairer white of the elder seraph's hair, and he pauses to let that flick of a tongue be coaxed further, patience shown to the adept's art. He is not the sort to deny pleasure, nor force it outside its season without good reason.

Goodbye with the buttoned tunic, perhaps? Or will that split along the axis of its seams, shredding to nothing but colourful fibres to expose Lucifer's chest? That belongs to Michael to decide, leaving well enough alone or stripping anything that stands in his way. An option rarely available to him, he throws himself into the disassembly for Lucifer Morningstar with energy usually reserved for laying waste to the enemies of Heaven or contemplation of an interesting topic for a hundred years. Rust hair falling over his brow, the younger angel pauses for only a moment to assess his angle of attack. He is delicate with the clothes, at least until he has them off. Once gone, he flicks them aside, casual as a falcon discarding plucked feathers from his prey.

Fingers splay wide and course down to the seraph's tailbone, planted there, pushing down. Lucifer uses weight and gravity as an assist, his grip as certain as a shackle. A moment later he arches up, pressing himself into the straddle bridging his legs. Might as well see what Michael does between a rock and a hard place.

That pause is encouragement, and now Michael becomes the aggressor within the confines of the kiss, strength on, bending the elder back, just a little. That pressure on his tailbone makes him dig in his boot heels behind the bench and arch hard into the contact. Aroused already, not quite grinding. His jeans do very little to hide the fact of the building tension, pushing at the seam.

Pressure is as pressure does. Diamonds form under such circumstances, or black holes devouring all. Lucifer drinks every offering as the most delicious elixir. Their kisses take on the feral hue of a predator unleashing some of the pent-up fury, the taste of cruelty not exactly what Lucifer uses. A bite to Michael's lip again holds until flickering with electric pain, even as he presses up against the piano in turn. A flash of his hand covers the keys before the jarring serenade punches palmfuls of off-key notes. Feet press apart, hard, giving an adequate grounding for the elder seraph to thrust right up into Michael. He adjusts in the smallest of motions, dancing along a threshold as effective as feathers fanning tender skin -- or where his fingers glide at the moment, skimming along the spine to leave the angelic warlord of Heaven subjected to the mildest tease of fire. A lick of it, not enough to burn, sparks of heat dance between his wings. So freed up, removing his pants with the other hand shouldn't really be hard.

_ Oh yes.  _ Fire of the soul kindles a shocked reaction borne of pure instinct. What else Michael has to fall back on, he sure wasn't expecting that kind of foreplay. Enough to make his wings mantle and flare, afire with that ember glow, the gesture of challenge, though Lucifer's hardly a foe. He bites back, nipping, bringing the weight to bear. Hands already impatient with those pants make shorter work of them in mutual assistance to strip the rebel prince. Not destroyed yet, either, but he kicks aside the trousers once off

“Satisfied?” says Lucifer.

“Not by half.”    
  
“Half? I should have to do better.”

The growl stifled in the back of Michael's throat mingles with a drowned laugh, rusty with disuse.

Lucifer is bared to him. Michael stoops, striking, his mouth hot on skin exposed beyond any clothes. The throat, the shoulders, impatient suckling on a nipple; he barely restrains himself from just bowling his elder over.

Call it what he will, a game of tense stakes and dark pleasures roll on the dice of the resurrection night. Lucifer plays with fire as a stimulant. Enough of a flicker dances along Michael's bare flesh. His excitement registers enough for the Lightbringer to do it again. A slow-moving trek teases lower along the spine, coating the younger seraph in amber sparks, right up until those fingers curl around his hip and seal tightly.

A good push steers Michael off-course now and then. He wants to touch and a push of the palm knocks him asunder, making him work for connection and a caress.

Nails press in. Sluggish palms knead along Michael's hip, shaping flesh almost sharply against bone. Slanting summer-blue eyes catch on the instant of suckling, and that gathers a different kind of force turned on the prince of Heaven, God's favoured. The imposition of long fingers to skate right up along Michael's thigh, guiding his leg up to bare his groin to desultory touches and a grinding thrust. Frotting by a quick slide keeps things at a threshold of wild abandon and pushing the younger seraph right over. Like you do.

The younger angel arches and stretches wings out, less mantling than a moment's reaching for balance. Held by those fingers, he strains to see what happens where. Any internal compass long ago went off-track this close to the Luciferean pole, and his exploration is nearly blind without the benefit of his brother's knowledge. The grind gets one in return, and then he curls those wings in, letting Lucifer topple him. All the better to tumble over in a near sphere of feathers, before one pinion reaches out and pulls Lucifer close. Let him drag him with

What goes where? The hand on his hip keeps Michael fast more or less, the terrible strength pitted between them not wise to test on the battlefield or the bed or the terrace. Buildings would not stand up. If the seraphim fought in lust, imagine the response of an absent God. To see them entwined thus, kissing deeply and vying to make the other writhe, He might just remake the universe in a fresh instant of the Big Bang.

The urgency in Lucifer's touches or Michael's deepening exploration with his tongue along the elder angel's grows. Say there are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on all the world's beaches, the number is still too hard to fathom, or that the distance traveled by light in a second is so many millions of meters, and neither of those vast quantities equals the time they have waited to be with one another.

Passions are dangerous; they tear the veil of restraint. Pushing Michael over is easy. They rest together, lying sedate with their heads together staring up through the glass at the stars. But certainly not chattering to one another or  dreaming up the overthrow of the old order, as they never did. Lucifer lands, and immediately rolls to drop off the bench to the floor, propped up on one arm, stretching out and almost in a crouch. He ducks his head and runs his tongue over Michael's mouth.

Passions are dangerous indeed, especially sparked between beings to whom the hearts of stars are less than campfires, candles to be carried, fireworks strewn. He kneels before Lucifer comfortably, knees spread, back on his heels. At the run of his tongue, Michael reaches up to snag that shining head with his fingers, the better to still it for a fierce kiss, even if it's one yielding, inviting. Let Lucifer lead, if it pleases him. The shining wings spill back like iridescent silk. The arms reach for the Morningstar.

How enchanting, the hands that clasp his hair and dare to touch flesh that is not really flesh but a construct of energy to wrap around the inaccessibly deep flame of divinity. How charming, the thumbs that carve out the lines of Michael’s face, dragging under the cheekbones, and sliding on a convergence towards his chin. Michael is treated less than gently, tongue speared between his teeth and warm lips to his to allow for that furious, contained heat of a raging conflagration or an avalanche.

Lucifer is a very patient, indolent being at times, and others, violent, rushed, and willing. He slides forward and pulls his brother down, dragging them together, rearrangements that test the ideal balance where they fit together.

Patient enough with shivering mortals, Michael takes care with those tender moths so delighted to batter themselves into ash against the fire. But let impatience reign here. Michael can take it, wants it, flaring up to come together, as much as their two solid bodies can. Yielding, welcoming, every gesture lures his lover deep in. Tongues twine like serpents, and palms spread over the ribs, the back, tracing and describing the body contained in time. One long leg wraps around Lucifer's waist, as he comes back. The other knee beneath supports him as he leans in.

Michael still batters himself into ash, in some ways. The mortals who adore Michael, do they not burn with the sacrament he offers? The Devil's sacraments are no better, not even for his brother. Sinuous meanders twist them together when he wraps his arms tighter and jealously draws in the taxiarch. Let them all burn together, feverish with the hunger, sliding into spaces of the void. His own wings are so incredibly thin at their atomic structure they shouldn't provide the least bit of visible light to see by and tangible weight to counterbalance falling. When they emerge from a near invisible state, they shimmer like starlight reflected off a dark sea initially. Given how they twist together, Michael’s dusky plumes and not the dawn-struck ones keep them up.

His hands course up and down the trench between the flexed blades, nails driven down deep to score Michael's skin. He knows the sensitivity and fearlessly exploits it. Patterned whorls temper the hurt with salve of a different sort.

Nerves are best afire, even with pain. Pain is temporary, and the nails make the muscles of the spine go taut. His wings quiver, rippling with that rose-gold shimmer. His hands are on Lucifer's shoulders, fingertips digging into the muscle here, pressing, massaging.

“ _ Lucifer _ ,” he breathes out. “Don't…”

“Stop?”

Michael's eyes narrow and he shakes his head. “Please, no.”

“Please cease what I am doing?” Lucifer says.

“No.”

“Please slow down and stop touching you?”

“Touch me. Kiss me.” The stuttering words draw to a cry at the feel of skin on his.

Languid as he is, Lucifer plays with his food as it were, Michael the prey as much as anyone courting war can toy with him. Claws unsheathed would be reckless; the best approach is taking him unawares, whether by transferring his hand around the saddle of the younger angel's hip to pull him spontaneously into a deep embrace or knocking him over in the process. Old games that played in the halls of the Pillars of Creation or leaping around galactic whirlpools intimate at such things, but in the end they're still individuals with their own personalities and intentions. Knocking someone over to hold them near, lips fervent and demanding after such long silences is one thing, rolling as not to pin a wing to the floor in uncomfortable angles another.

“Is that what you needed, Michael?” Lucifer stills his hands, his wings curled around them.

“Please...”

“Tell me what you want. Say it.”

Using words indelibly marks the desire between them where nothing can be concealed or hidden. “I want you. Touch me like you do the mortal woman. Be with me like you have her.”

“Fuck you,” Lucifer says. “Say it properly. You want me to fuck you.”

Michael wrinkles his nose, head shaking slightly. “No. Fuck is too dirty. I want something more passionate. More meaningful. Love. Make love to me.”

The silence carved into every space between them nearly hurts and begs for immediate response. Lucifer presses his lips against Michael's, a vehement thrust up toppling their carefully found balance where they splay again on the floor. A bit of turning and twisting prevents damage.

An absurd, ungainly moment where that pinned pinion makes his body and the other wing roll and flap and curl like a seagull stuck to the boardwalk. Michael adjusts as best he can. But no offense taken. He rolls with it, then the free wing curls around Lucifer, dragging him close. Submissive to those kisses, even as he glories in them, he is less a wrestler trying to best his opponent than a pup happy to present his belly to his siblings.

Lucifer pauses for only a few moments until Michael settles. Somewhere weakness defines itself as a point of considerable interest, all because he can rarely avoid such things. Present him with an opportunity to exploit something and he well take it. He tickles the underside of the powerful pinions where they meet with the shoulder blade, enticing the fine, downy feathers to spread out.

The kiss is even harder then, lingering and long, seeking to bruise the sweetest of lips until they conform to the shape of Lucifer's own, greed inherent in every last sweep of his tongue. If he bangs his head on the floor, oh well.

Pearled copper skin glides along his palm and takes the brunt of a caress, kneading in, willing that great strength inherent in the spread of the wing shiver as a pine bough on a windy night.

Such a touch raises Michael’s feathers, each standing out individually. For there is that impossibly soft down at the joining, under the shoulders, that magnifies the slightest touch to an unbearable pitch. Wings spread in an absurd curve, obedient to the Devil's whim. But not even those muscles are eternal in their resolve. The vast span curling down to sprawl limp, spread over the floor. The  _ Dying Swan _ enacted inadvertently, for Michael is graceful, even in disarray. The kisses are accepted, reflected, returned, a ripple of pleasure down his spine.

His feathers in eager arrangement are a beautiful thing, something patently delicious. Lucifer combs his fingers through the sunset hair, patently covetous of the shorn silk deserving of curling around. He bites at Michael's jawline and marches up to the corner, lavishing short and broad strokes of his tongue to better conjure up the need and rampant desire in the younger of the seraphim. Shuddering feathers are not enough, not by half. Not until the bowstring arch is pulled taut and sounds of surrender uttered so, let that not be the end of it. The Morningstar raises those indigo eyes, contemplative even in this, and pulls back Michael's lower lip with a pass of his thumb. "How do you want to be touched?"

He cants his head, kisses that thumb and suckles it, affectionately. "However you want. I know you keep company with some who can provide the rough stuff, if you want to do something more than mortals can take. But…”

“Yes?”

“I just want you to touch me. To be pleased. I miss it so much." An arm thrown around Lucifer's neck, his brow pressed to brow, gives a strange solemnity, save for the smile in his eyes.

One day or another they can discuss roughness, said the libertine to the louche, the warlord confronted by the liar on the field of victory. Lucifer's gaze resembles a dawning sun, his teeth bared to sink in hard on Michael's shoulder and take no prisoners if that hurts or not, save that it does. "Keep company, brother? You think me able to consort with demons and hellspawn eager to flense the flesh from the bones? I haven't put myself in their hands, and I never will."

How does one argue with the incorrigible former master of Hell? He slaps Michael's backside, delighting in the ripple through the buttock. "Ride."

Oh, it hurts, and it's glorious. Muscle hardens beneath those teeth, tension flutters along to the trembling tips of his wings. "No," he says, breath caught, that balloon wheeze. "More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 's all. Some of 'em are as tough as us." Only when Lucifer releases him does he plant a hand over the Morningstar's solar plexus and push back. "All right. Here?"

"They're not my sort." Truth enough, not their sort of people, not their kind of lovers. Who chooses among the exiled after having the greatest of cake? He runs his tongue over his teeth and tastes the kisses there, sweet and sour and firm, something to move. Lucifer willingly reclines, stretching out, almost folding his arms behind his head with complete ease. Somewhere, maybe, there might be a pillow or a cushion or a towel, but nothing necessary for him to really be comfortable. Not with Michael poised as he is, happy and smart and content, enacting what he seeks. His tongue presses to his teeth, smile furious and bright.

He finds something to serve as lubricant. Maybe he just conjures it out of thin air. Michael has power enough to manage that without thinking, His mortal lovers have instructed him thus far. A sweet oil from the bathtub's side comes to his hand. A little fingerpainting with it first, the warm scent of almond rises clear for a moment. Pinching each nipple into readiness, he traces his fingers down to the points of those narrow hips, the firm length standing above. Lucifer is hard as stone and straight as a spear, ready for him. But what joy would there be in going straight for the prize? Michael's one for playing with his prey, too.

Lucifer doesn't actually bother to remain totally flat on the ground, instead betokening a favourite spot on a chase. He knows a great deal about not blanketing himself with undue amounts of clothing, and where to be the most comfortable. That means padded upholstery, sprawled out, a louche, knee bent and back arched right until it's time to undertake such pleasures.

Sweet oil to caress with, music to play. The moment calls for a hedonistic appreciation. The Morningstar hums a sonnet that deserves to be purred with a stormwarden's litany right about now. He sighs, patient, arching up to Michael's touch with the greed of an indolent man. He is quite happy to hold perfectly still otherwise, strummed, those naked points hardening and the halo flickering into burning gold radiance. Let all things be considered as he pinches at a hard nipple in return, but far more sedate, stroking chest and wing alike.

All the better to be admired for a little. More teasing strokes are called for. Michael applies the oil in a splatter down the length of the prostate Devil's abdomen and rings a circle around Lucifer's proud cock. It begs to shine and he obliges, stroking his long fingers up and down. No corner must be forgotten or untouched. Pleasure in the application, making sure there will be no friction at all save for that wanted.

“Tell me you want this,” he says. A squeeze captures the thick shaft and drags upwards, pulling Lucifer's ass inches into the air.

“Impale yourself on my cock, Michael.”

Another stroke drags out a long, slow groan.

“I think you're getting impatient.” Rust-dark hair shields Michael's face. He bends to kiss the tip, the only place without oil, and runs his tongue tentatively over the crown.

Lucifer tastes like manna. He should, and that alone leaves Michael in place, suckling the warm beads of liquid welling up to meet his eager tongue.

“I think you're finally starting to learn, brother.” Lucifer Morningstar closes his eyes with pleasure and thrusts firmly up until he hears the seraph choke, and feels himself bottom out against those invitingly warm lips.


End file.
